Something Vague
by Radioheaded
Summary: House likes to watch. What happens when he's caught?


The air that rushes to greet House as he steps onto his balcony is cool, just the way he likes it. He moves towards the edge, leans his forearms on the concrete railing and looks out at the city. His gaze has glazed over by the time he hears the muffled noise of a door closing. This brings him out of his almost-meditative state and he shakes his head, collects his thoughts. The noise, he discovers, has come from Wilson's office. The friend in question is seated at his desk, smiling amicably at the woman in front of him. She's sharing an anecdote, telling him something because her hands are moving; Wilson nods a few times, but doesn't speak. He's polite, smiles at the right times, giving that reassuring, boyish grin. He won't be smiling by the time the meeting's over.

House knows of this woman; not personally, but knows she's dying. He and Wilson possess a single fact that will derail this woman's life. That will bring the orbit of her life crashing down on her and everyone she knows. It's a strange sort of paradox. The thought is examined, marked down and then brushed away; yes, it is sad she's going to die, but not for him. He'll go on like he always has. For now, he watches as her story seems to come to a close. The mirth on Wilson's face slides when he realizes that it's time to tell her. His gaze becomes gentle; House can almost read his lips when he tells her she's got cancer. There's a moment of silence between them, then her shoulders slump. He pauses, gets her to look back up at him, then continues. When he stops speaking, he looks at her expectantly, waits for a reaction. His fingers reach out to her slowly, move to touch her arm, but he's stopped. She's put a hand up, palm facing him, fingers spread. She must be speaking because he's looking at her with a look on his She rises suddenly and Wilson mirrors her, walks her to the door.

House waits a moment before going back into his own office. Ten minutes later, Wilson's in front of him. He's talking fast, pacing. Agitated.

"I just told a woman she was dying." The words are clipped, thrown out quickly.

"Do you need a tissue? A shoulder to cry on? I think Cameron's still here." House earns himself an eye-roll.

"It was so…weird. I tried to comfort her, to tell her we could manage her pain, but she just brushed me off." Wilson's hands are in his hair; he's still standing, fidgeting and House wants to yell at him, tell him to sit. To stop.

"Losing your touch? Next they'll stop thanking you for your death sentences." House pulls his face back in a mask of mock horror. Wilson looks at him, though, and he stops. "Maybe she wants to die." It's a peace offering. Wilson finally sits, but his brows are still furrowed. He's concentrating, but on what?

"It was weird. Why aren't you more interested in this?"

"Not my patient. Besides, she's probably suicidal. No interesting diagnosis required." Wilson nods, unsurprised.

"So why did you watch?" The words were said softly, but their meaning was huge.

"I didn't." His tone is low; it's a threat.

"I saw you. And it's not just this time. Every time I give a patient a terminal diagnosis, you're there. Why do you watch?"

"I like to watch easy diagnosis. Call it envy of a simple position." House looks at Wilson, makes eye contact. He's a good liar; his own words leave him half-convinced. He thinks he's won when Wilson stands; he'll be alone in a few seconds. Wilson will accept his excuse, calm down, then ask if he wants to hang out. It'll be fine. But his heart speeds up when he realizes Wilson is moving closer, coming around to his side of the desk. He couldn't exasperate him enough to leave; couldn't change his focus.

_Fuck.  
_

And Wilson is looking at him now, staring straight into him and he's close, so close. There's a hand touching his face and he moves to slap at it, make it go away, make it all just fade away, but then he feels a tremor. The hand that cups his face is shaking; he looks up, back into Wilson's eyes and sees fear. Of rejection? Whatever it is makes House stop, makes him think of what he's doing. Of what he should do. Of what he wants to do. His eyes shut; lashes hit cheeks and Wilson's hand moves up. His thumb sweeps across a high cheekbone, and then House's hand is on Wilson's tie. House grabs it roughly, pulls him down until their eyes are level. There's barely an inch of space between them; locked eyes fluidly become locked lips. The kiss is warm, reassuring, though slightly awkward. Wilson's moves down to his knees, bumping their noses in the process, but the angle is easier and he settles in, letting House investigate all the crevices of his mouth. But then the kiss is broken; Wilson is pushed away. He falls back onto his ass rather ungracefully, looking like a wounded teddy bear.

"Why.."

"We can't do this—" House rubs his jaw; Wilson's eyes are on his flushed lips.

"It was—-" He protests, but is cut off again.

"Here." House gestures to his crotch. "Glass walled offices…..not the best place for a quickie."

"So this is…ok?"

"Obviously."

Wilson gets up, smoothing his slacks and shirt. He moves to leave, tells House that he'll be over tonight. House nods, grunts some kind of response and sits in his darkening office, waiting out the hours.

From an unseen corner of the Diagnostics lounge, Cameron stood, slack-jawed. She was bent, retrieving a book when, out of the corner of her eye, she's seen something unthinkable. She stood carefully, sat down at the table, and watched Wilson walk to his office. House was right. She wasn't going to be able to fix this one.


End file.
